Black on Silver
by Flamedancer33
Summary: Yaoi-ish, VincentSephiroth. Just when you start to think the darkness is eternal, you see that tiny light, whether you welcome it or not.


Flame: I was asked recently to try and write a Sephy/Vincent story. And so I try.

Dancer: Wow, are we sporadic. Ya know, that pill you take every day is supposed to calm you down, but you're doing a reasonable impression of a wind-up toy on speed.

Flame: Ha ha ha ha. Ha ha ha hate you.

Dancer: A notable comeback if there ever was one.

This is angsty for me… I'm almost scared…

Disclaimer: Sephy and Vince not mine. And seeing as to how this is a new pairing for me, try to be nice.

They weren't exact opposites, but they were close.

Red on black. Green on silver. Dignified, regal, private, cold. Treading the vague line between dangerous apathy and open hostility. Calm and quiet and centered, distanced even. There were thousands of similarities between them. It was the differences, however, that made it special.

He was arched, graceful and beautiful. His face was a dazzling array of something that could have been agony or ecstasy, relief or despair, or anything and everything in between. After all, this was frowned upon. This was taboo, unacceptable, even unholy, according to society's standards. But, really, where had society's standards gotten them? They were abused, used, manipulated, the both of them. Society had shoved them into a deep, dark corner and turned its back.

In the corners were shadows. Darkness. Black. But black didn't always mean evil, and if it did, this evil was currently acceptable.

So this was where they- he- wanted to be. Did it matter? No one cared anymore. They were beyond him, had moved away from him, had left him behind without a single glance back.

A command was whispered into his ear, ordering him to stop thinking, accompanied seconds later by a long, low moan. He shifted his attention back to the matter at hand. The god, the angel, the being with only one wing, they had all fled him and left him merely as a man looking for someone to help him escape these shadows.

Those red eyes, narrowed and knowing, watched him for several long heartbeats before another thrill of ecstasy surged through their owner. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, one hand hovering protectively close to his exposed throat. Not quite trusting. Not yet. Not anymore.

Perhaps they weren't so different after all.

Vincent opened his eyes to empty darkness.

It seemed to follow him now, the lonely night. He never saw the light of day unless he forced himself to stay awake after dawn. The day didn't seek him out. It had rejected him, tossed him to the night, left him like a helpless lamb for the wolves of darkness to snatch up and carry away.

Sephiroth had wandered again last night. Oh, not physically, no- physically their… association was sound. But mentally, yes- he had left again, leaving only an empty shell that sought pleasure and craved contact. He was trying to fight his way free of the darkness they had been cast into, and he was using Vincent as a weapon.

It wouldn't work. Fighting fire with fire had never worked; fighting darkness with darkness was doomed. Vincent knew this, knew Sephiroth knew, and was content to let that empty shell find pleasure and contact with his own.

It wasn't as though Vincent took a mental side trip. He knew all too well the fragility of time, and took advantage of everything offered to him. It was just that he had never been completely mentally present, not even before his body had been so cruelly mutilated.

The General was still asleep beside him, an interesting array of emotions crossing his face. In waking hours, Sephiroth was in perfect control. You could never guess what he was thinking. But when he was asleep, his steel will hidden beneath the gentle, multiple layers of unconsciousness, his emotions took a timid step forward and showed themselves.

He wanted out. They both did. But the both also refused to acknowledge it, show it, let alone act upon it.

Vincent shifted onto his stomach, letting his raven hair fall over Sephiroth's. Black on silver. Somehow, it was symbolic. Vincent wondered momentarily how a man had ended up with spun silver for hair, then shrugged it off and rolled over. Trivial things, really. He should be asking how much longer they had together before something ripped them apart and sent them off on their different ways.

_Seconds? Days? Years? Centuries?_

It didn't mean much to them anymore, time. It was simply another annoying little catch about life. A god and a vampire- neither aged, so it was merely a question of how much time they had before moving on to the next phase of their eternal lives.

It was depressing, really, when he stopped to think about it. Thinking wasn't such a good hobby.

Vincent rolled out of bed, pushing his hair out of his eyes with his good hand. Another scar, his metal arm, one more noticeable than most others, but a far cry from the worst scar he bore.

The lamp was hard to find, and offered little light when he did find it. The pale yellow dance did, however, reveal something he had almost forgotten. The light flickered like dying stars, glittering on the hard, cold metal of his gun. It sat on the bed stand, within easy reach. The lamp's weak illumination also showed the curved blade of the Masamune.

They didn't trust each other. They had no reason to.

Sephiroth shifted, his predator's eyes affronted by the distressed light. He rolled slightly away from the assault, wishing it would go away. After a long moment, he realized the warm presence normally at his back was no longer there. He sat up and glanced around the room.

No Vincent.

It didn't surprise him, really, seeing the other man gone. They hardly spoke to each other except when one of them wanted something from the other. Usually, Sephiroth did the asking, and he did it through all but attacking the other man. Vincent was too controlled, too strong to go to Sephiroth.

Another thing they had in common.

There was so little to do here, in this place they didn't know, and yet time slipped like silk through the fingers so easily. The harder Sephiroth tried to grasp it, the smoother it slid, until it flowed like a ribbon of water. And always, it got away from him.

The day came quickly. The sky, normally the same ebony as Vincent's hair, was gutted by the sun and its warm and cold colors. Indigo gave way to crimson, then gold, and Vincent retreated, keeping away from the light and silently falling backwards into the shadows.

Maybe their problem was that they no longer wanted to be part of the light.

Sephiroth watched the cold, distant star fill the sky with its brightness. He sat, waiting patiently, as the darkness bled out of the night's horrible wounds, replaced by the cheery lifeblood of the day. He watched as the moon finally relinquished her hold and bowed to her brighter, more dominant brother. The distant stars, the audience to this stage called life, faded away. And he hated it.

No, the light was no longer meant for them. The darkness had slid her subtle claws into his heart, his soul, and he could not rip free. It wasn't as bad as society viewed it. In fact, life was easier this way.

A hand skimmed through his hair, and he knew without another thought what it was. Vincent was asking, in his own quiet way, asking for him to come back inside. To come out of the light, join him in the darkness, and return only when the night did. Only when darkness ripped through the light with its unavoidable talons. It was a vicious cycle, day and night, light and dark.

They weren't exact opposites, but they were close.

This time, Sephiroth easily identified the look on Vincent's face. It was ecstasy, pure and simple, given without any strings attached and taken at face value. The god, the angel, were gone. They had been stripped away by raw emotion. His spirit slightly burned where they had been, leaving the feeling of skin that had been scrubbed too much.

Vincent trusted the man. The time he was on guard was during the hours the angel, the god, was present. And he could never be sure how far away those hateful entities lurked, how deep beneath the surface he could dig before hitting something malevolent and furious.

Several minutes later, Vincent lay still trembling. His eyes were half closed, a sated look creeping into their scarlet depths. Sephiroth smirked, knowing he looked the same, unable to feel anything but possessive pride. He alone could get Vincent, normally so controlled and strong, to let go of everything. He alone could make Vincent beg, make him moan, make him tremble. No one else could say that.

Someday, perhaps soon, they would part. And neither of them would look back. But they would both cling to the shallow darkness, protecting themselves from the weak light. And perhaps, after that, they would cross paths again. It wasn't worth counting on or waiting for. Sephiroth had better things to do here and now.

Soon, the sun would take the knife of light to the night. And not too long after that, the moon would revive her own attack on the day. It would go on forever.

He was satisfied with now. He was satisfied with the shadows.

Flame: Holy. Freaking. Crap.

Dancer: That took an entire hour and twenty minutes to write, and yet you take four hours to write a half-page essay on queen conchs.

Flame: Ugly little creatures.


End file.
